


Afgod in Blód

by gardnerhill



Category: Beowulf (Poem), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I knew that course in Old English Lit would come in handy someday...  The first adventure featuring the Lord of Lundenceaster and his soldier-scop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afgod in Blód

**Author's Note:**

> For JWP 2013 Prompt #Prompt #4: **Oh say can you see…** the alliteration in this lyric? Use at least one alliterative sentence in today's entry - and the more alliterations, the better!

**AFGOD IN BLÓD (Image In Blood)**

Wounded and worn,                                      to London came Watson.  
Stamford was sympathetic,                           his suggestion salutary.  
“Ha, hemoglobin!                                            …How are you?” Holmes.  
The two took up tenancy:                              Baker, two-twenty-one.  
“Brag and bounce!”                                       But correct; a bulls-eye.                                     5  
Lauriston, and lifeblood;                                and Inspector Lestrade.  
Watson, in wonder, watched                          his friend; witnessed.  
A ring, and realization.                                   They found red writing: RACHE.  
“A fellow, florid-faced,                                    with long fingernails.”  
Rance was reprimanded;                              Holmes raged, “Won’t rise.”                             10  
A crone collected                                           the ring, confounding them.                       
The dead identified;                                       Enoch Drebber,  
from Torquay Terrace,                                    a terrible tenant.  
At Halliday’s Hotel,                                         further horrors held;  
Stangerson stabbed,                                      a study in scarlet.                                             15  
Pills in a package, poison                               (the poor dog proved).                                 
A cab was called –                                         and the cabbie cuffed;  
Holmes: “Here we have him;                        Jefferson Hope.”  
Sadly, he spoke                                             of the Land of Saints,  
A lost love; how he’d longed                         to avenge his Lucy,                                           20  
Farrier her father                                           foully murdered; her forced                       
To marry a Mormon,                                      her mourning mortal.  
Hope hunted. The hounds                             in turn harried him;  
The States, the sea,                                      all Europe; a score  
Of years, youth spent,                                   till the Yankee                                                   25  
Called a cab, and was conquered.                His constant companion                                                                
Stangerson, stalked and stabbed;                 Hope said “Self-defense.”  
No hearing; his heart burst,                          a Higher court held.  
…The papers’ proud praise                          for only the police  
(Dismissing the detective)                            roused the Doctor;                                            30  
He resolved to write                                     and end this wrong,  
Till all halls would hail:                                 Sherlock Holmes!  



End file.
